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Dutch came first. It was a particularly busy and boisterous night in the Dick Hut, tucked in the back shadows of an alley off the Nuuanu Stream in the heart of Honolulu's red light district. The sign over the door actually said "Richard's," but that's not what everyone called it. Naval ships were in harbor, more than ninety of them, I was told, and all of Oahu was abuzz at the rumbling of war, with the Japs getting more belligerent with each passing day. All the sailors could talk about was how we were on the brink of something big.

As the night wore on and the drinks flowed and sailors overflowed our little bar, it was getting a little dicey for me. Hung Lee, the bar's proprietor and my virtual owner as well, kept a string of young Hawaiian men like me in the bar for when the sailors wanted something more exotic, smaller, more lithe and compact—and more undressed—than each other when they poured off their docked vessels, randy, needy, and with a month's pay in the back pockets of their regulation tight whites. Our main responsibility was to keep the men in the bar and paying for drinks. Inevitably, though, we left the bar with one or more of the men and took them to our small rooms in the upper floors of surrounding buildings. This was where the real money was, and Hung Lee let us keep a third of whatever we earned.

I had already left the bar once that night—with a blond, pimply young sailor of no more than nineteen, who was shy and embarrassed and didn't know for sure what to do. All he knew was that he was far from home, he ...

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